


La Dolorosa

by lethargicProfessor



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lethargicProfessor/pseuds/lethargicProfessor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are the Dolorosa.<br/>You are shackled, beaten, struggling to keep your head up as your child, your beautiful boy, is dragged to the center of the arena.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Dolorosa

You are the Dolorosa.

You are shackled, beaten, struggling to keep your head up as your child, your beautiful boy, is dragged to the center of the arena.

The crowd is laughing, jeering, as he is dumped on the ground unceremoniously, like a sack of waste.

He does nothing, though. Merely stands, bowing his head. Whether it is in pity, or in absolution, you know not. All you know is that your boy needs you, yet you are unable to help.

The shackles around his wrists are but a mocking salute to his status: the Signless, the mutant, one who is less that the lowest rustblood. They burn brightly, searing deep into his flesh, sizzling on contact with the obscenely red blood.

You cry out, begging even the highest of the Subjuggulators for even an ounce of pity, before resorting to bargaining and finally, a failed plea to the heavens. Whoever or whatever it is that your son has been listening to, who has been giving him visions of a brighter day, of a land of peace…Please, please save him now. Prove your omniscience; give all those gathered proof that there can be change, please…

You hear the charges brought against him, shaking as the list grows and grows. Treason. Blasphemy. Countless accusations of heresy and abominations that would cause even the worst of horrorterrors to tremble in agony.

The pain you feel as a blueblood drags you towards the cages is nothing compared to seeing his face, red eyes brimming with sadness.

Not of his fate. Of course not. He long resigned himself to death, despite your feeble attempts to rally him otherwise.

No. He is sad because his people, the ones he so longed to free from the ferocious grip of tyranny, have yet to see the light.

You call out to him, begging him to recant his sermons, to turn his back on everything he’s struggled to uphold, in hopes that, maybe, just maybe, they’ll let him go. Anything to keep your boy from facing death.

He merely smiles, a soft, indulgent gesture, and closes his eyes. “They know not what they are doing, Mother. You can’t blame them.”

You are not the only one crying out to him now. The Disciple, silly girl, is fighting the highbloods, scratching and biting at anything possible, sobbing as he slowly turns to face her. There are no words exchanged, but you still feel their bond, the transcendent connection they always had, charging the air with electricity.

Psiioniic, bless his soul, pulls free, but instead of going after the Sufferer, he pins down the Descendant. She wails, clawing at him, but he holds steady, gritting his teeth in pain. He knows the Sufferer would not want his dear friends hurt for his sake. As much as he would like to follow the Disciple’s example – he could certainly cause some damage, maybe even give them all a chance to escape – he knows that is not the plan.

The E%ecutioner stands at the ready, arrow set into place, and it is obvious by the sweat dripping from his brow that this is not something he would like to do. He flinches as the Disciple screams, begging him to spare them.

He wavers, cracking under her pleading, but the Grand Highblood quickly puts an end to that. The order is to be carried out swiftly, or else.

The arrow whistles, then thuds with a sickening squelch. His startled gasp is drowned out by the Disciple’s shriek and your own whimpered sob.

Never have you seen the look of pure shock on his face. It was like he was hoping – praying? – those gathered would repent, change their minds like some fickle wriggler that can be easily swayed.

Red blood begins to trickle down the corner of his mouth, and he gags as it grows. Disciple slumps over, stunned, and barely moves as Psiioniic is forcibly dragged away. He curses, struggling against the stronger subjuggulators, and is quickly swallowed by the crowd.

You feel like the earth is trembling, like the vast glub has been unleashed, and sink down slowly to your knees. So what if the shackles tighten? That ridiculous Dualscar blusters, barking orders as if he actually had power. He pulls on the chains, yanking you back, but you can do nothing but stare at your son.

The blood is flowing freely now, dripping down his chest, soaking everything in a flood of cherry red. He is shaking faintly, head hanging, breathing getting shallow. It seeps down, coating his gray skin, sinking into his leggings.

He is convulsing now, worryingly so, and the highbloods are noticing. A ripple of hushed whispers scurries across the group, before the Grand Highblood stands.  
The E%ecutioner is to continue with his job. No exceptions.

He shakily grabs an arrow as the Disciple is dragged towards the center, and still Sufferer trembles, coughing as the blood fills his branchiostegal respiratory organs.

Disciple is shaking, pleading with the blueblood as your dear boy crumbles, hitting the ground with a groan.

He’s shaking, propping himself up even as the obscenely bright blood splatters on the dirt in front of him, and you’re crying out, begging him to stay still and _oh god please stop moving please please pleaseohsweetheartI’msosorryMommawillmakeitbetter—_

And suddenly it’s over.

You can feel it in your chest cavity; like time has frozen, and the breath is caught in your throat and there just isn’t enough air and your think pan is pounding and you’re sobbing and you just can’t think can’t think can’t THINK because it can’t end like this, it can’t, he’s not ready to go, he still has so much to do and please, please, oh god don’t let him be dead.

The arrow is poking through his skin, and it looks so awful, so ridiculously out of place, blue on red, and a whisper of breath leaks out of his body and you can feel the very life draining from your body.

I’m sorry.

Everything fades away – the cheering, the hooting, the loud, animalistic crying of the trolls around you.

All that you can see is your sweet little boy.

You can see him as a grub, struggling to follow you through the caves you called home.

As a wriggler, experiencing his first horrorterror dreams, sobbing into your arms and you try to soothe him.

Older, pale and weary, so much weight on his shoulders for such a young age, and all you can hear is him pleading with you – _Mother, please, I need to go out there_ —and you denying him each and every time until he begins to sneak out, to preach to those around the area.

Then there were the nights you cried. On those nights, when the paranoia and the fear got to be too much, he would come too you and hold you close and whisper stories.

Stories of peace, of freedom from those horrid highbloods, and you remember indulging him, because, honestly, that was just a fairy tale, it could never come true…

You see your pride and joy, limp, bleeding, and you feel a fury bubble through your chest, a raging, burning inferno and everything turns red, you can’t see, and the world burns and you don’t care because YOUR world is gone and then—

He moves. Dear god, he’s moving. How? Why?

A hush falls through the crowd as he sits up slowly, the same burning look in his eyes as you experienced moments ago. The highbloods stare, waiting to see what he will do, see what kind of trick this is, and he coughs up blood before shouting in a rage, the sound echoing, crawling up your spine, and with a blinding white light he’s gone.

There’s a panic, and blood splatters as the subjuggulators try to contain the masses in the only way they can. Disciple runs, grabbing the bloody remains of your son’s clothes, blending through the crowd.

Psiioniic is long gone.

And you…

You sit in the dirt, hands shackled, beaten and bruised.

You wish you were dead.

For a brief moment, jade tears blur your vision, and you can almost imagine a pair of little arms reaching up to wipe them away, accompanied by the faintest of smiles framed by choppy black hair.

Why are you crying, Mother? Everything will be okay. You’ll see.

A pensive look, nubby horns peeking out through the gray hood.

Maybe not right away, but you will! I promise, Mother. Just don’t give up on me.

You are dragged off, the last dregs of a memory fading away, and in the distance, you swear you see the proud, tall figure of your child, waiting patiently until his time comes again.

**Author's Note:**

> this is also posted on FFN, though I'm officially moving to AO3; it can also be found on my tumblr


End file.
